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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23396551">lovely (secretly i think you knew)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/trespresh/pseuds/trespresh'>trespresh</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(but what else is new), 5+1 Things, Character Study, Jaskier Has Feelings and Geralt is an Idiot, M/M, No specific timeline because if the show gets to say Fuck You Time then so do I, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Explicit Violence and Gore, These idiots have ruined my life, non-explicit blow jobs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 16:36:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,828</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23396551</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/trespresh/pseuds/trespresh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“How do you do that?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Geralt merely turns his raised brow on Jaskier, eyes tired but not enough to mask the vague annoyance. </i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or, five times Geralt conveys his feelings with just a look, and one time he actually says them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>423</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>lovely (secretly i think you knew)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So this is the first thing I've finished in four years. Yay for quarantine, I guess?</p>
<p>Title belongs to Banks.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If there’s one thing Geralt should be continentally known for, it’s not the tales of monsters slain by his sword, tales which Jaskier so lovingly spins in taverns and town squares. It’s neither the white hair nor brutish stature, and it’s certainly not his forthcoming and radiant eloquence. To that point, in fact, what Geralt ought to be known for is his—frankly terrifying and uncanny—ability to intimidate, patronize, or otherwise devalue another with merely a look. </p>
<p>It’s a talent, really.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>1.</p>
<p>One morning after a particularly nasty scrape with a pissed off bukavac, Geralt drops heavily onto a barstool in the town’s pub, his purse a couple hundred crowns fatter. His hair is blackened with reeking mud and there’s blood caked on his scowling face.</p>
<p>Honestly, Jaskier thinks as he takes the stool next to Geralt, it’s no wonder people were scared of him before they had Jaskier’s songs to set their opinions right. </p>
<p>The barmaid looks over from where she’s been wiping down the counter on the other side of the bar. </p>
<p>“What’ll it be, boys?” She asks, collecting two tankards on her way over to them.</p>
<p>Geralt tongues at his split lower lip and raises a brow, eyes slightly narrowed as he cocks his head and looks at her.</p>
<p>“Something strong, then,” she notes. “And for you?”</p>
<p>“Ah—less strong for me, if you will, as it’s still early and I’m significantly less bloodstained than he is. Thank you,” Jaskier says, then, quietly to Geralt as she turns to fill their mugs, “How do you <em> do </em>that?”</p>
<p>Geralt merely turns his raised brow on Jaskier, eyes tired but not enough to mask the vague annoyance.</p>
<p>“Yes, alright,” Jaskier mutters, and sips the beer set down in front of him.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>A week later, they’re at another tavern in another town, and the barmaid asks, “What’ll ye have?”</p>
<p>Jaskier fixes his gaze on her, raises a brow and ducks his chin to look up at her charmingly. He’s certain he looks suave and dashing, ready to sweep this young lady off her feet with his manly brooding, until the girl furrows her brow and asks in a concerned tone, “Y’alright, luv?”</p>
<p>Jaskier drops his gaze and straightens in his seat. “Er—yeah. Beer, please,” he mumbles, and glares at the smirk Geralt barely hides behind his hand.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>2.</p>
<p>For all the time Geralt spends fighting monsters, slaying them with his sword speared through necks, or slicing off pincered claws, or carving bellies open so that stinking, steaming innards fall to the ground with wet <em> thwack</em>s—for how easily the dance of battle with devils comes to Geralt, he very rarely turns his sword toward a human unless he is justified in doing so.</p>
<p>And this time, <em> oh</em>, is he justified in doing so. </p>
<p>The bar that night is rowdy, filled with relieved townsfolk celebrating the death of the horrible beasty that’d been stealing children from their beds—a crime for which Geralt would have gladly hunted the monster free of charge, the big softie, were they not painfully low on coin. </p>
<p>Two birds, one stone, as it were.</p>
<p>Geralt and Jaskier sit at a table in the corner of the bar, acknowledged with boisterous toasts and rounds of beer on the house, but for the most part left blessedly alone. Until.</p>
<p>One of the townsmen, a hulking fellow with red cheeks and a booming laugh, stumbles toward their table. </p>
<p>“Witcher!” He hollers in comradery, and the bar fills with joyful cheers. “For what else may we hire your sword?”</p>
<p>He’s absolutely pissed, eyes unfocused yet alight in the way only the supremely drunk can manage. Something about the crooked grin on his face sets off warning bells in Jaskier’s mind.</p>
<p>“Tell me, witcher, does your talent for putting down the worst monsters also apply to pretty ones?”</p>
<p>A couple of the man’s buddies bark their laughter behind him, the townsfolk still smiling and howling, seemingly aware of where the man is headed, even if Geralt and Jaskier aren’t.</p>
<p>The warning bells are crescendoing into sirens, by now.</p>
<p>“Our dear <em> princess</em>—” he spits the word, “seems to have our King wrapped around her little finger!”</p>
<p>Geralt’s good humor—the relaxed slope of his shoulders and the soft smile that only good beer and a job happily done can coax from him—disappears in an instant, his eyes suddenly hard and glaring at the wall over Jaskier’s shoulder. The muscle in his jaw jumps from how hard it’s clenched; Jaskier can nearly hear his teeth grinding.</p>
<p>Oh, dear. Jaskier had been there that night of the betrothal banquet in Cintra several years ago, and knows of Geralt’s Child Surprise. He also knows of a princess in Geralt’s past that he has mentioned but a few times, though never by name. He’s seen the brooch Geralt carries with him, all these years later. </p>
<p>“Ah, good sir, you may want to—” Jaskier begins, but the man, the enormous blithering dolt, yells over him.</p>
<p>“She’s convinced him to raise livestock and grain taxes, she has, and then dares to parade through our market—covered in jewels and silks that our taxes, our livelihoods, have paid for!” The townsfolk jeer, spurring the man on in his rage.</p>
<p>Which, to the man’s point, this princess does not sound like a wise or fair ruler, but <em> honestly</em>. Read your audience.</p>
<p>“Geralt,” Jaskier says quietly, seeing the way his fists have clenched white around his mug, the clay threatening to shatter. Geralt still does not look away from the wall, ire in his eyes that leaves this drunken fool on very, <em> very </em> thin ice.</p>
<p>“What say you, witcher? It is a job any of us would gladly take, but one that lies within your speciality,” he booms, and the men of the bar beat their fists on their tables and roar their agreement, and wouldn’t you know it? This oblivious man thinks he’s being <em> amiable</em>, thinks that Geralt will smile and bellow his concurrence alongside them. </p>
<p>If they leave now, this can still end well for all involved, if Jaskier can just haul Geralt out of here—</p>
<p>“Tell you what, she’d deserve a good violent fucking to put the bitch in her place before you lay your sword to her, witcher! You’d be well justified to—”</p>
<p>Geralt is on his feet, sword unsheathed and the tip pressing feather-light to the man’s trachea before he can finish his astronomically stupid sentence. </p>
<p>Ah, fuck.</p>
<p>A pin could drop to the floor and the whole bar would hear it, for how abrupt the silence is.</p>
<p>Jaskier drops his head into his hands, speaking at the table when he says, “I wouldn’t dare finish that thought, my good sir.”</p>
<p>There’s murder in every line of Geralt’s face, hell fire in his eyes that make them burn flaming orange rather than their normal ochre. His lips are twisted, teeth bared in a snarl so ferocious, so <em> animal</em>, that even Jaskier hesitates before standing. He slowly stretches his hand out toward Geralt. Geralt’s eyes flick to him in his periphery before returning to the cowed man on the business end of his sword.</p>
<p>“Geralt, let’s go,” he says quietly, so that only Geralt and the foolish man may hear him, then raises his voice to the bar— “as this is quite obviously not a job you will be taking. Nor will anyone else in this town, if they know what’s good for them,” he bids the room with an authoritative tone only Geralt will see through, but will not disagree with.</p>
<p>Geralt doesn’t lower his weapon. The man’s lip wobbles just a bit, a dark patch wetting the front of his trousers as Geralt’s sword nicks his throat when he gulps.</p>
<p>“Geralt,” Jaskier says again, even softer this time as he sets a hand gently on Geralt’s outstretched arm. Geralt glances down at Jaskier’s hand, then seems to remember himself. His arm lowers, but he does not sheathe the sword. </p>
<p>“Great. Excellent,” Jaskier says, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Well done, everyone.” He drops a few coins on the table. “We’ll be leaving. Er—first thing in the morning, actually, as our room at the inn has already been paid for. Please, lovely people, continue your celebrations! ‘Tis still a fine night for your safe town, is it not?” He says with a bravado he does not feel. </p>
<p>Geralt may have lowered his sword, but his eyes are just as sharp where they remain on the drunk’s face, as though trying to flay him alive with nothing but his glare.</p>
<p>“Off we go, Geralt, come on,” Jaskier says lowly, and is pleased when Geralt hums a growl and stomps toward the door, Jaskier on his heels.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>“Well, that was an eventful night.” The lightheartedness of his voice sounds forced even to Jaskier’s own ears.</p>
<p>There’s a fire crackling in their room in the inn, throwing orange shadows onto the walls. The warm light glints off the brooch Geralt is palming. Jaskier sighs.</p>
<p>“Geralt? Are you alright?” He asks, tentative in the breakable silence.</p>
<p>Geralt's eyes remain on the brooch in his hands, thumbing away nonexistent smudges before he meets Jaskier’s concerned gaze. The ghost of a forced smile tilts his mouth, and there’s something so tired, so world-weary in his eyes before it flickers away. He sighs, dipping his head in a nod.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>3.</p>
<p>Geralt’s hand is still in his hair as Jaskier licks his tender lips and grins to himself for a job very well done. He squeezes Geralt’s thigh and the hand in his hair unclenches.</p>
<p>It’s a delightful day. They’re stopped off near a small pond on the side of the road to water Roach and give her a rest. Cliffs rise around them, the air dry and dusty, the sun high in the clear sky. When Roach had bowed her head to the pond, Jaskier had taken the opportunity to crowd into Geralt’s space, waggle his brows and purr unabashed lewdness until Geralt, the poor, put-upon darling, dropped the (obviously fake) inconvenienced frown and sat upon a nearby boulder, allowing Jaskier to drop to his knees and bring lute-callused fingers to the tie of Geralt’s trousers.</p>
<p>“My knees will be scraped raw from these rocks,” Jaskier says now, rocking to his feet and slapping dirt from his trouser legs as Geralt laces up his own trousers. “Ah, just as well. Just another adventure to write about, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>Geralt parks his hand on his knee, tilting his head, and slowly rolls his eyes up to squint at Jaskier with that look, the sharp one one that very plainly says, <em> are you fucking kidding me? </em></p>
<p>“Gods, it was a joke,” Jaskier mumbles.</p>
<p>Geralt hums and gets to his feet, tugging a lock of Jaskier’s hair that sweeps, sweaty, across his forehead. He turns and walks to Roach where she’s standing several yards away, nickering judgmentally. </p>
<p>“You know what? You know what! Just for that, I <em> am </em> going to write about it! How about—er—<em>On your knees for your witcher</em>,” he belts, voice echoing off the cliff walls, “<em>Or give him a handy / he tastes just like—candy</em>—ah, shit, no. That’s so terrible it’s not even worth the joke. Bah!” He huffs, waving an annoyed hand at Geralt’s back, and doesn’t see the way Geralt’s lips twitch up as he adjusts a saddlebag.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>4.</p>
<p>The tavern they’ve chosen to settle in for the afternoon is quiet, out of the way of the main market road in the small town. Only a few of the tables are occupied, including their own. </p>
<p>They’ve been on the road for what feels like a disproportionately long time, through regrettably horrible weather. Jaskier shivers yet again from the bone-deep ache of seasonal cold that has settled over the continent. They’ve been setting up camps every night for the past few weeks—weeks of hard packed forest floors, of chilly winds whistling through creaking trees. Jaskier is intensely looking forward to a hot bath and warm bed in the room they’ve rented for the night. </p>
<p>He’s just starting to daydream about which part of his grimy body to wash first when the door to the bar bursts open at the hand of a frantic, pale-faced man stumbling through the doorway.</p>
<p>“I—I’m looking for the witcher,” he announces breathlessly to the near-empty bar. “Please! I was told he came in this direction, has anyone—“</p>
<p>Geralt leans back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. The movement catches the man’s eye and he all but falls over himself in his haste toward their table.</p>
<p>Jaskier’s already got his notebook out, his pencil poised in hand. This must be something <em>good</em> to have the man this terrified.</p>
<p>“Please, witcher, <em> please</em>! It’s—it’s coming for me,” he gasps, looking over his shoulder to the door as if whatever monster he’s referring to will come stomping into the bar.</p>
<p>Geralt tenses out of his reclined position, sitting up in precaution. </p>
<p>“What’s coming for you?” Jaskier asks, already jotting down details of the man’s fear.</p>
<p>“Please, it’s… it’s a tupilaq,” he says in an undertone.</p>
<p>Jaskier freezes and can sense Geralt do the same. A quick look up at Geralt confirms; his gaze is locked on the man’s face, flicking over the strained lines of guilt pulling the man’s brows into a furrow, the shame in his eyes and the folded-in bow of his shoulders as though he’s trying to shrink from the witcher’s penetrating gaze.</p>
<p>“But I—“ Jaskier clears his throat, his pencil now dropped and rolling across the table. The town they’re in is part of one of the northernmost kingdoms, and yet: “I thought they weren’t found this far south?”</p>
<p>Geralt slants a surprised, nearly impressed, look his way, and Jaskier shrugs. “What? I read.”</p>
<p>The man takes a shaky breath. “No, they are not usually, er, <em> utilized, </em>this far south.”</p>
<p>Geralt’s sharp eye is back on the man, scrutinizing with disdain. The man sways on the spot.</p>
<p>“Who sent it after you?” Jaskier asks, hesitantly picking his pencil back up.</p>
<p>Geralt is looking at him again. He could leave off with the astonishment, as it’s really quite insulting. </p>
<p>“Oh fuck off, Geralt, I said I read!”</p>
<p>The man above them stares wide-eyed at Jaskier, impressed and horrified by Jaskier’s bravery in speaking to the witcher in such a way. Jaskier rolls his eyes. </p>
<p>“I said,” Jaskier bites out, “who sent it after you?”</p>
<p>The man flinches, cowering in Geralt’s expectant gaze—like the witcher knows what the man is going to say, but is going to make him say it anyway. The man stares back, eyes huge and scared, mouth working like he can’t admit the words.</p>
<p>Finally, he chokes on a breath and, voice small, says, “Technically, I did.”</p>
<p>Geralt’s top lip twitches up in a sneer, and he breathes a growl. There’s disgust written plainly on his face, so that the phrase <em> if looks could kill </em> floats through Jaskier’s mind—though if looks could do anything, Geralt’s could reduce this man into nothing but low, mucous slime that he would scrape off his boot and leave behind without a thought. Geralt leans back in his chair, arms across his chest once more. He raises an eyebrow at the man, revulsion in his eyes.</p>
<p>Tupilaqs are a messy business. They are the decayed remains of dead things—animals and worse—cursed into life and sent after an enemy. A pitiful abomination of a puppet meant to aid its creator in winning petty human squabbles gone too far. This lowlife man must have made the mistake of pointing his tupilaq in the direction of an enemy stronger, more magical, than the man himself, and had his own creation turned back on him.</p>
<p>“Where did the bones come from?” Jaskier asks, hushed.</p>
<p>The man pales, eyes flicking between the two of them. He recoils between Geralt’s deeply antipathetic expression and Jaskier’s refusal to meet his eyes. “I—what?”</p>
<p>“The bones. The <em> children’s </em>bones. Where did you get them?”</p>
<p>The man hangs his head, resigned. “My enemy’s own daughter. Dug up from her grave in their garden.”</p>
<p>Geralt snorts, turning his head away as though he can’t bear to look at something so nauseating as the man’s face any longer. Jaskier throws his pencil down. This man does not deserve a song.</p>
<p>Geralt stands, towering over the man intimidatingly, as though the pure loathing that twists his lip and the wrinkle of his nose like he can smell the stinking rot of the man’s heart aren’t belittling enough. He hums one last grunt of disgust before turning and walking toward the door.</p>
<p>“Please, <em> please</em>, witcher! They say you’re the best—you must help me! I’ll pay you, whatever the price!”</p>
<p>Jaskier stands as well when Geralt doesn’t turn, pushing his way through the door of the bar.</p>
<p>“Even if he <em> could </em>help you, he wouldn’t. Man of morals, that one,” Jaskier says, without a hint of sympathy. “You know what you have to do.”</p>
<p>The man whimpers.</p>
<p>“Go to the town square. Gather an audience, and admit what you’ve done. Publicly lay your abhorrent, dwindling humanity bare and admit the atrocities you’ve committed, and the curse will break.”</p>
<p>With that, Jaskier follows Geralt, leaving the man shaking and shamed in their wake.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>5.</p>
<p>This isn’t the first time they’ve fucked. </p>
<p>It’s certainly not the first time they’ve fucked under the night sky—the stars so bright that the heavens sparkle like a geode, reflecting in Jaskier’s eyes when he throws his head back, lyrics and melodies and breathtaking <em> symphonies </em> roaring through his mind alongside the ache of his thighs spread over Geralt’s hips and of Geralt grasping Jaskier’s own. It’s not even the first time they’ve fucked after nearly getting themselves killed (though these are undeniably the best times, the adrenaline high still so potent that every drag of skin, every digging bite of fingernails, every desperate movement between them feels scalding, like the campfire Geralt’s built has spread and set their bodies alight, like they won’t get their fill of the reminder that—<em>oh</em>, they are <em> alive</em>!—until the stars fade into the pale pink of dawn).</p>
<p>Jaskier doesn’t write the ballads that ricochet through his brain after nights like this, because if he writes them he won’t be able to stop himself from singing them, and if he sings them, Geralt will quite possibly murder him. Or worse, stop these glorious nights out of sheer pettiness. </p>
<p>It doesn’t stop him from humming out a sweet little melody that’s been buzzing through his brain though, or from strumming phantom chords with his fingers in mid air. </p>
<p>They’re spread out side by side, afterward. Dawn hasn’t broken yet, so the air still holds its chill, which, combined with the drying sweat on his chest and the back of his neck, sends a violent shiver through Jaskier.</p>
<p>Geralt looks over at him, and from this angle, his hair glows the orange of the fire that is slowly burning down to embers in their small camp. Without  a word, he pulls Jaskier across him, an arm snug around his waist so Jaskier is pinned into Geralt’s side. </p>
<p>“Are you—” Jaskier starts haltingly, leaning up just enough to look Geralt in the face, “—are you <em> cuddling </em> me? No, no—wait—”</p>
<p>He grabs hold of Geralt’s arm when he rolls his eyes and tries to pull it away.</p>
<p>“—just let me have this,” he demands, heaving a happy sigh and relaxing into Geralt’s abnormally high witcher warmth. Geralt’s chuckle echoes against the cheek Jaskier has laid on his chest. He can feel the breath the witcher takes, preparing to admonish him.</p>
<p>“No, no,” Jaskier says, lifting himself up again before Geralt can open his mouth. “Don’t try to tell me it’s just for warmth! You wanted a cuddle, you great big softie, I can see it all over your face.”</p>
<p>Geralt pointedly arches a brow, as if to accentuate the complete lack of need for cuddling on his face. Or, possibly, to draw attention to Jaskier’s shivers that—actually <em> are </em>disappearing due to their shared body heat, damn him.</p>
<p>“Nope, definitely all over your face,” Jaskier reaffirms. “I have to look at your face more than you do, you know, so I know how to read your subtleties.” </p>
<p>He drops his head back down and settles against Geralt again. Geralt’s arm tightens, nestling him closer, and Jaskier hides his victorious smile in Geralt’s skin. “White Wolf, indeed. More like a great white puppy. I ought to reframe your reputation, give the people a more accurate portrayal of—ow!”</p>
<p>Geralt pinches his hip, so Jaskier bites his nipple in retaliation.</p>
<p>“Just admit it, witcher. You not only tolerate me—you <em> like </em> me!” He lifts his head once more, unwavering in the face of Geralt’s furrowed, skeptical brow, the amused set of his lips. “You enjoy my company, I know it. You enjoy it so much, in fact, that you find yourself seeking a cuddle from me! Well, I suppose I can allow you that, if you’re going to be so pushy about it,” he says, imperious, hoping his delight doesn’t seep into his tone.</p>
<p>It must do, because when he glances up, there’s a fond tilt to Geralt’s lips as he stares up at the stars.</p>
<p>“That’s what I thought,” Jaskier sighs, and Geralt snorts before reaching for a stick with his free hand to stoke the fire’s embers into crackling, dancing flames.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>+1</p>
<p>By the time the third villager has come up to them to enthusiastically shake Jaskier’s hand and nod in shy reverence toward Geralt, Jaskier is feeling pretty smug.</p>
<p>They’re walking through the village market, Geralt leading Roach by the reins and Jaskier by his side, passing through on their way south. Jaskier has become somehow used to blessed compliments and rave reviews of his songs in their wake across the continent, but there’s something especially rewarding about being praised by folk from even the smallest villages, right to his face.</p>
<p>By the sixth compliment (from a small child grasping the hand of her mother, waddling up to them to proudly say, “Your songs are my favorite, my ma sings them to me before bedtime!” She then tilts her head all the way back to smile fearlessly up at Geralt. “I like your horse, Mr. Witcher!” and Roach knowingly drops her head to nuzzle at the girl’s cheek until she’s giggling and patting Roach’s nose), Geralt side eyes him with a small smile as they continue on their way.</p>
<p>“Your head is so big it’ll block out the sun,” Geralt grumbles, good natured.</p>
<p>“Oh, just because <em> some </em>people don’t hesitate to thank me for giving them a witcher they can admire,” Jaskier responds, unexplainably sullen. “A pie with no filling, indeed,” he tacks on under his breath.</p>
<p>Geralt snorts, but says nothing.</p>
<p>“You could thank me, too, you know.”</p>
<p>Still, nothing.</p>
<p>“You <em> are </em>the one who’s benefited most.”</p>
<p>Geralt rolls his eyes, pointedly looking at Jaskier and then around at the villagers, calling attention to Jaskier’s accumulating admirers. Still, he says nothing.</p>
<p>“It’s not the reviews of strangers I crave, Geralt. You can’t seriously be this emotionally constipated.”</p>
<p>He’s toeing the line between asking for an innocent (though well-deserved) word of kindness about his songs—and an admission of something, <em> anything</em>, deeper. Something reflecting the years they’ve spent together, and the thrill that rips through Jaskier every time he coaxes a laugh from Geralt. Something acknowledging the weight of adoration Jaskier has carried all this time, heavy as the saddlebags thrown across Roach’s back. He’s worn down, heartsick over the idea that this feeling may be his alone.</p>
<p>“I’ve written songs for you—<em> about </em> you! Ballads, even!” It bursts from him and suddenly he’s furious. He stops in his tracks. “You know quite plainly how I see you, and think about you, and admire you! And yet I know nothing of how you feel for me. Never a soft word for Jaskier, oh no, not even after <em> your balls are empty</em>!” </p>
<p>Okay, he’ll admit he may have yelled that last bit just a sliver too loudly. </p>
<p>Geralt turns, a storm on his face as he stalks back toward Jaskier. Jaskier prides himself on the way he doesn’t back down in the face of the angry witcher, his chest high, chin tilted up and eyes sparkling in defiance of Geralt’s own pinning gaze.</p>
<p>He expects a punch in the gut, or maybe to be scruffed like an angry kitten and dragged along on their merry way. What he doesn’t expect—</p>
<p>Geralt fits a hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck, the other around his arm, and hauls him in for a harsh kiss right there in the middle of the market. There’s murmuring as villagers go about their errands around them, but Geralt pays them no mind as he ends the kiss by pulling Jaskier back by the neck.</p>
<p>“You are <em> lovely</em>, Jaskier,” he growls into the few inches separating their mouths.</p>
<p>Jaskier’s mouth drops, eyes snapping open in surprise. <em> Lovely! </em></p>
<p>“And a royal pain in my ass. If I can’t give you a soft word, it’s because I can’t get <em> any </em> word in edgewise. In fact, I haven’t known a moment’s silence through the years we’ve traveled, and yet somehow, I do not always miss the silence.”</p>
<p>Not a moment’s silence, <em> really</em>. And Jaskier’s meant to be the dramatic one? </p>
<p>But he’s not stupid, not on purpose anyway, so he holds his tongue in hopes Geralt will continue to say nice—are they nice?—things to him. </p>
<p>“I care for you. I care what <em> happens </em> to you, which only adds to my own stress considering the many times I’ve had to save your ass from accidentally walking off a cliff or running your smart mouth to the wrong person.” </p>
<p>Jaskier glances nervously at the townsfolk dodging around them in the middle of the road, but Geralt’s sharp gaze never wavers from him. </p>
<p>“I enjoy that smart mouth—” his eyes drop to said mouth, burning—“and I enjoy finding ways to shut it up, which is no easy task. I’ve met monsters with less foolish bullheadedness than you, but you are loyal nearly to a fault, and often seem eager to get yourself killed in order to prove it!” Geralt snaps. “For that, I admire your commitment to your craft, bard, and am pleased it extends to me.”</p>
<p>He looks anything but pleased at the moment, Jaskier thinks deliriously. He doesn’t see the townsfolk passing by anymore, or hear the cacophony of the market around them. In fact he hears nothing but Geralt’s voice, and sees nothing but the intensity of his eyes. He can’t look away, enraptured, so he sees the way Geralt’s brow now unfurrows, his face relaxing out of its volatility. He thumbs at Jaskier’s lower lip. The frustration and annoyance has bled from his tone when he speaks next, replaced instead with something softer, resigned and secretive. </p>
<p>“A witcher’s life is not meant to hold love, yet mine has done since you forced your way into it,” he finishes with a squeeze to the back of Jaskier’s neck. “Does that cover it?”</p>
<p>Jaskier can do nothing but nod in Geralt’s grip, eyes wide and throat dry, heart hammering a crater into his rib cage. He feels very much like the scruffed kitten he’d thought of earlier, only instead of feeling chastised as a kitten might, he feels oddly light, buoyant even, as though he could float up and away into the blue sky and blinding sun—and oh, isn’t it a splendid day?</p>
<p>Geralt’s eyes gentle, lips turning up at the corners in a smile, and the hand at the back of Jaskier’s neck curls around to tip his chin up for an uncharacteristically tender kiss.</p>
<p>“Good,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier’s stupid heart stutters. “You speak enough words for the both of us anyway.”</p>
<p>Jaskier huffs a laugh. “Yes, alright, you’ve made your point. Quite eloquently, if not bitingly.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums, kissing him once more before pulling away and tugging Jaskier’s earlobe. </p>
<p>“Oh, and,” he says, voice at its normal, gruff volume but now with the slightest hint of teasing, “you have a lovely singing voice.”</p>
<p>And with that, he turns and picks up Roach’s rope, leading her away as if nothing just happened.</p>
<p>Jaskier blinks, dazed, because there’s that word again! He jogs a little to catch up, entirely unable to keep the dopey grin from his face. </p>
<p>“I hope you know I’m already composing a ballad in my head.” And this time, he’s damn well going to finally write it. He hums a few experimental notes of the saccharine melody that’s been stuck in his head for ages, his fingers already itching for his lute. “It’s going to be my best yet, I can taste it. To be titled, <em> ‘Lovely</em>.’”</p>
<p>Geralt huffs, smiling.</p>
<p>“I’d expect nothing less.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Stay healthy, everyone ♥</p></blockquote></div></div>
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